


knot a romcom

by nicotinedaydream



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 22:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17836931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicotinedaydream/pseuds/nicotinedaydream
Summary: Stiles falls a little bit in love with Derek the day he walks into the man's butcher.





	knot a romcom

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, wow, this has been on the backend for ages. I started writing this for a prompt early last year but then dropped out of writing Sterek for a while. The prompt was basically Alpha butcher Derek and Omega Stiles, where Derek owns/runs a butcher and sells at a meat market. Finally, it is complete. Not too sure about the sappy ending (or the title, what even is that???) but I thought I would post anyway in case people enjoy. So, here ya go!

"And Stiles? _Please_ don't forget the ribs for dinner this time!" his dad yells through the open bathroom door, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

"Yes, Dad, I'm pretty sure I heard you the _third_ time you told me. Which, just for the record, was… Oh, right, _two minutes ago_!" Stiles groans, leaving the house before his dad reminds him for a fourth time. He wouldn't put it past his old man.

The butcher is fairly busy when he arrives. He picks a spot in line, waiting to be served, when a man walks out from the back room.

 _Holy shit_ , Stiles thinks, jaw dropping. The guy is definitely built as tough as the meat he cuts into; arm muscles fill out the black Henley he's wearing, a bloody apron tied around his waist. Does that repulse Stiles in the slightest? NOPE.

The line finally starts to move, but Stiles finds himself rooted to the spot and ogling the perfect specimen of man standing at the counter. The only thing that gets him moving is a cough from behind him, followed by an impatient bark of complaint. He overhears the guy chatting to the customer he's serving, smiling brightly, and the illuminance in that smile knocks Stiles back a few steps (or, well, rather figuratively, since whoever's behind him would likely kill him).

"Hey there, what can I get you today?"

 _Oh, crap, I'm next_ , he thinks dumbly as the customer in front of him thanks Hot Apron Guy and heads for the butcher's exit. He shuffles forward, putting on a small smile and trying to look cool damn it.

"Hi, um, can I please have two of your steaks and six of your barbecue ribs?" He twiddles his thumbs, hoping Hot Apron Guy doesn't see and think he's as anxious as he is. God, he hopes he isn't becoming flushed.

Hot Apron Guy must not notice, nodding politely and wrapping the items up, packing them into a large plastic bag and putting them on the counter. He presses some buttons on the cash register before speaking. "That'll be—" he says, but Stiles finds himself already grappling for his wallet that's half-hanging out of his pocket… aaaaaand the wallet slips out of his sweaty, nervous fingers before thudding to the floor.

"Shit, shit, sorry, sorry, sorry," he babbles, bending to pick it up. The grumpy gentleman behind him groans loudly—and, yep, Stiles wants to crawl into a small dark crevice and hide.

"It's not a problem," he hears Hot Apron Guy say. He rises to meet the man's outstretched arm holding his bag, a hint of a smile ghosting the corners of his lips.

"Seriously. I'm so, _so_ sorry," Stiles continues to mumble, missing the moment the man's small smile slowly dies on his lips, too busy shaking his head and taking out some paper notes. He places them on the counter, not game enough to hand them to Hot Apron Guy and risk his clammy hands meeting those tan, glorious palms by accident.

He rushes out of the butcher before Hot Apron Guy can finish calling out that he's forgotten his change. His dad asks why he's so flushed as he walks in the door, and he subsequently avoids that question like he used to do with Coach on Mondays.

***

As fate would have it, Stiles bumps into Hot Apron Guy again.

(But, alas, Hot Apron Guy does not notice him.)

His dad visits the meat market in town every Sunday, loves walking around to browse the fresh produce. Stiles sometimes joins him because, hey, why the hell not? It's there one Sunday that Stiles notices a muscly guy heaving a huge, hulking mass of meat out from the back of a truck and unloading it onto a display table. The guy wipes his forehead with the collar of his shirt before lifting his head wearily, and…

Stiles's jaw drops.

_Hot Apron Guy._

"Who now?" his father asks. Oh. He'd said that out loud.

"No one," he replies vaguely. "Hey, look, free meat!" He dashes away before his dad can realise that there is, in fact, no free meat and that his son is an evasive, lying liar who lies.

***

And, so, Stiles keeps bumping into Derek again… and again, and again, and again.

(Without being noticed, not even once. Sadly, the dude is _everywhere_ but doesn't seem to pick up on Stiles's presence. Which: obviously.)

***

"Okay, honestly, we need to stop doing this!" he finally shouts one day when Hot Apron Guy intersects him on his jog in the park.

"What?"

 _Oh, thank god, he finally sees me_ , Stiles thinks as Hot Apron Guy's eyebrows do a complicated dance on his forehead. Stiles is fascinated in their movement for a few seconds before he realises he's standing there, staring.

"You. Me. Bumping into each other," he says, finger-gunning to himself then Hot Apron Guy's hot bod. "A lot."

Hot Apron Guy's lips turn down and he squints; he looks like he's thinking really hard about whether Stiles is telling the truth, or if he's just a weirdo who may have stalked him on his jog and is now hounding him for his attention. Finally, a sign of recognition dawns, and Stiles notices the lightly arched eyebrow of surprise.

"You came to my butcher three weeks ago, didn't you?"

"Your butcher?" Stiles gawps, because _that's_ the only time he remembers recognising Stiles? Wow. Hurt.

Hot Apron Guy nods. "I own the business. The name 'Hale' ring any bells?"

"Hale?" Stiles questions. Hot Apron Guy goes a tiny bit—okay, a lot—deadpan.

"Derek Hale," he replies.

"Well, uh, cool," Stiles stammers, chuckling. "My name is actually a cluster-fuck of syllables, so you probably don't want to call me that. I go by Stiles on a regular basis to save the incessant need of one to want to blow their brains out."

Derek snorts, eyebrows arching high up on his forehead as he nods and says, "Stiles, huh?"

Stiles nods back before whistling quietly under his breath. "So, uh, sorry about that day. I pretty much stood you up right there at the counter?" He winces. "That wasn't one of my best moments. The guy behind me sounded like he wanted to throttle me, my hands were slippery, you were hot—" He backpedals when he realises what he's said. "Shit. That, uh, that wasn't meant to be—I—"

"Whoa, hey, slow down." Derek looks… not angry. "It's okay. I'm not offended."

Stiles glares half-threateningly out of panic. "You should be."

Derek laughs again. Stiles wishes he wouldn't. It's distracting. "Well, I'm not."

"And you should be," he counters, aghast. "Dude, I practically objectified you to your _face_?"

"And I'm not offended," Derek quips back, smirk lighting up his face. Fuck.

Stiles's next long assault of words die on his lips and he huffs out a frustrated breath. "Wow, you're a dick." His eyes widen frantically. "Oh, god. I did the thing again."

Derek shrugs, smiles all charming-like, and Stiles clenches his jaw to stop himself from letting it ease open in ill-timed shock. Derek must take it for suppressed agitation, because his smile drops and he almost looks disappointed. He brusquely turns around and starts walking away, and _whoa there that can't happen_.

Stiles snaps out of his stupor and shouts out, panicked, "Please, stop!"

Derek does eventually stop, slowly turning around; even from where Stiles is standing, he can see the man's eyebrows dance in confusion on his forehead. Stiles runs up to him, pausing in front of him. He clears his throat.

"I'm sorry. Again. I'm terrible at… at, you know, _this_."

"At talking to people?" Derek says. Stiles isn’t sure, but he swears Derek has humoured him after clearly displaying signs of not being able to talk to people properly (without walking away, heh) either.

"Well, not really. Only the hot ones," he blurts out. This time he's not ashamed to say it. (Go hard or go home, right?). "I mean, have you _seen_ you?"

Derek coughs, a shocked burst of laughter coming out of his mouth. Stiles stares him dead in the eyes, and they're the colour he imagines a crystal ball to be. Makes sense. He's under their spell right now.

"You know you're a walking Adonis then, that's good to know," he asserts, smirking and feeling the tension begin to progressively release from his body, comforted by the blush on Derek's cheeks. Stiles has made him blush. _Naww_.

"I wouldn't flatter me that much," Derek says.

"No, but, like seriously. The directors of the Batman movies would be so devastated for casting Christian Bale if they saw you," he continues, waving his hand casually. "Also, Wolverine. You would make an amazing Wolverine. Have the claws already and everything. Deadpool would be your biggest fan." He grins.

Derek's cheeks flush a deep red; the same red as his eyes, which flash quickly for a minute in obvious surprise.

Wait. Red eyes? _Shit_.

"You're an alpha," he rasps, feeling slightly out of breath.

Derek's eyes squeeze shut. " _Fuck_. I'm sorry. Sometimes they do that when I'm nervous." He sounds… wounded. Oh no.

"Oh, no, that's not—" Stiles stops speaking. Derek has opened his eyes and is staring at him, deep hurt etched on his face. "I'm not like that. I'm _not_. I just…"

"It's okay, you don't have to explain," Derek whispers, and before Stiles can say he's sorry the man sulks off (again, _ugh_ ) as abruptly as Stiles has seen boyfriends do when their girlfriends try to lead them into yet another shoe shop. Which, ouch. That hurts.

"Idiot," Stiles mutters, slapping himself in the face.

Nope. Bad idea.

" _Ow_. You're a goddamn idiot."

***

"Stiles. Come on, son. Your meat is getting cold!"

Stiles hears his dad's exasperated call from the kitchen downstairs and groans. "Don't want any," he mumbles, knowing his dad can hear. Werewolves, ya know.

"Oh, for—" There's the sound of footsteps down the hall; ones that stop at his locked bedroom door. "This is about Hale, isn't it?"

Stiles freezes. It feels like all the air in the room has been sucked out and he's suffocating.

"W-What?"

"Stiles. I know what happened. Derek told me everything."

 _Great_. Stiles winces, burying his head in his hands.

"It's not like what he said. It's not, Dad. You _have_ to believe me."

"I know, son, I know," he murmurs. "I told the boy that, too. He just thou—"

"Thought I was one of those omegas who find the whole alpha providing for them thing super creepy as shit," he bites out, angry at himself for even saying the words. "I mean, he's a _butcher_. If that doesn't scream 'I'm here to provide' any louder."

"Stiles," he dad sighs. "You can’t beat yourself up about this."

"Yes, I can, Dad. I pretty much judged the crap out of him for his own instincts. I'm a horrible person."

"You didn't judge him, son."

"But he _thought_ I did. That's all that matters. Now can you leave me in here to mope, please?"

Stiles hears his dad curse under his breath.

"Fine, kid. You know I don't think this is your fault… right?"

"Yeah, Dad, I know," he mutters.

"Good."

Stiles waits for his dad's footsteps to disappear down the hall before rubbing at his eyes.

"Stupid emotional little omega," he says hoarsely, sniffling.

***

Stiles wrings his hands out in front of him nervously, standing in line at the butcher. Derek's butcher—the alpha he'd basically shunned with his big fucking mouth two weeks ago.

"Next!"

Stiles jolts anxiously at the familiar voice. He walks up to the counter, tries to smile and not look like he's dying on the inside.

"H-Hey, can I get some of your spicy chicken wings?"

Derek glances up from the register and stares at him, a look of disgruntlement on his face.

Stiles tries not to put his foot in his mouth this time, lifting his hand to give a small wave. "Yeah. Uh, hi…" He clears his throat after standing there awkwardly for a few seconds, Derek silent and somewhat brooding behind the counter. "Okay. Sooo… I came to apologise. I never meant to hurt your feelings. I didn't even think about how it would sound before I said it, and I'm… I am really sorry, Derek."

Derek continues staring at him, but the bell on the door behind them jingling spurs him into at least blinking. "Stiles, I can't do this," he finally says, voice blank as his expression.

Stiles swallows roughly, wishing the ground would cave in and bury him six feet under. "I—okay. I'm, uh, I'm just gonna…" He points to the door where a customer has strolled in and is staring at him oddly, probably curious to the conversation they'd walked in on. "Go. Yeah. I'm gonna leave."

"Stiles, no, that's not what I mea—"

Stiles is already gone.

***

"You just left?" Scott asks around the huge bite of burger he's chewing. Stiles rolls his eyes; both at the question and the sight of his best friend eating hungry like the wolf. Oh, the irony.

"Yes. _I left_. What else could I do? He clearly didn't want me there. You should have seen the look in his eyes, Scott. Like I'd kicked his puppy, and then put it in a blender… and made him watch!"

Scott's face scrunches up in disgust as he swallows the food in his mouth almost on reflex. "Dude, gross. I'm eating."

"I mean, I don't blame him. I'm a horrible person, Scotty. I'm utterly, horribly… horrible," he groans, face-palming.

"You're not horrible," Scott says, sounding like Stiles had just put Allison in a blender, and when Stiles looks up he's scowling. "You're not horrible. You're my best friend."

Stiles chuckles, unassured. "Yeah." He rubs at his eyes. "I'm terrific."

Scott punches his arm.

"Ow!"

"You _are_ terrific. If Derek or whatever his name is can't see that, then maybe he _is_  a dumb alpha running on instinct and not common sense."

Stiles bursts into choked laughter, wiping at his eyes again. They're teary this time, and he's not sure if it's because Scott's stereotyping alphas when he's also an alpha, or that maybe Derek's just not that into him.

"Scott," he whispers, dismayed. "What if he's—"

"If you say 'what if he's just not that into me', then I'm stealing your curly fries."

"Go ahead because, Scott… because he's just not that into me," he mumbles.

Scott punches him again.

"Ow! Dude, would you _quit it_."

Scott's eyes flash red. "No, _you_ quit it. Stop pretending that no alpha would ever want you," he growls.

"It's true, though."

"No, it's not. You're smart, funny, and you're definitely not hard on the eyes. Trust me, I've seen the looks you get when we go out."

Stiles looks at his best friend's clenched lopsided jaw and fiery eyes, and he nearly freaking cries. "You're just saying that," he croaks.

"Trust me, Stiles," Scott murmurs, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not."

"Bro." He sniffles, smiling at the look of disappointment on Scott's face. "Thank you."

Scott's face immediately brightens and he grins, squeezing Stiles's shoulder. "Any time," he says. "Now hand me those curly fries."

"Insulting!" Stiles splutters, lunging to protect his babies.

***

Stiles is reading up on omega heats and scribbling messy notes down in preparation for his first one coming up (and holy balls is he terrified, wow, he's gonna be _so_ sore after this) when there's a knock on his bedroom door. He jerks at the sound, pen falling out of his hand and rolling under his desk.

" _Shit_ , yeah, who's there?" he calls, bending down to find his pen. He's still rummaging under his desk when he hears the door open and a pair of feet stop dead centre in the middle of his room.

"Stiles."

Stiles stops looking for his pen. Stops everything. He's pretty sure he's even stopped breathing.

Because Derek Hale is standing there.

_In his bedroom._

"Stiles," Derek says again, wary. "I came to explain."

"Explain what?" Stiles stands, turning around to face Derek, placing his hands on his hips. He knows what he looks like—a textbook definition for 'temperamental omega'. "You don't need to explain anything. I fucked up. You hated me for it. You _still_ hate me. Therefore, you should leave."

"I don't hate you," Derek growls. Stiles doesn't expect the hostility in the alpha's voice; well, at least not in this context.

"If you don't hate me, then why did you make me leave when I came to apologise," he snaps, feeling quite audacious for a change.

Derek looks taken aback for a second as his eyes narrow, lips twitching in frustration. "I never did. You left on your own."

Stiles opens his mouth to argue that fact when he remembers… all right, fine, yeah, he had left. "Okay, I give you that one," he grits out, sighing. "But you made it pretty obvious you wanted me out of your face."

"I—" Derek's facial expression goes through a mix of constipated emotions before he tries to speak again. "I came to explain myself."

Stiles is about to fight back, but realises he's just… done with fighting. He shrugs, walking over to his bed and sitting down. "I'm listening. I really don't think I could stop you at this point."

Derek doesn't expect Stiles to give in so easily; it's written in the surprised look on his face. He stares at Stiles, eyes crinkled in confusion, before moving over to sit on Stiles's desk chair. Before he does anything else, he bends down to retrieve Stiles's pen from the floor and place it back on the desk. Stiles watches his eyes linger on the desk and almost screams.

His notes.

Derek must sense his panic and immediately closes the notebook on the desk, turning to look at him sheepishly. "Sorry. I—"

" _Don't_ ," Stiles bites out, embarrassed. "Tell me what you came here to tell me."

"Okay." Derek nods, sighing quietly. He threads his fingers together on his lap, looking down at them intensely. "I never wanted you to leave. I didn't know how to put it into words that day, but I wanted you to stay… and that terrified me."

"Terrified," Stiles murmurs slowly. "As in…"

Derek glances up until he's staring straight into Stiles's eyes. "Not now. Scared, maybe, but not terrified."

Stiles nods. "That's… good. I'm really not a terrifying guy. Not scary either, though. Might want to go ahead and revaluate that."

Derek shakes his head. "It's not you. It's my…" He closes his eyes, exhaling, then opens them and meets Stiles's eyes once again. " _Instincts_. I have this undeniable urge to look after you. Feed you, take care of you, give you my—" He stops himself, eyes quickly darting down to the floor in what Stiles promptly identifies as guilt. "Give you things I shouldn't be thinking about when I barely know you."

Stiles feels something warm tingle down his spine. "Wow, um, that's…" He coughs, startled and a tiny bit giddy. "…a lot."

Derek nods, grimacing. "I'm sorry. I only came here to explain. I didn’t want you hating yourself for something that wasn't your fault."

Stiles swallows against the dry ache creeping up his throat before muttering, "I did anyway."

"I know." Derek looks absolutely destroyed, hurt beyond recognition. Stiles doesn't like it.

"But I don't anymore. I understand now that it's not my fault," he says, looking at Derek with the most earnest expression he can muster. "It's not yours, either."

Derek chokes on his next breath of air, sounding rather sickened as he mutters, "You can't say that when it's not true."

"That's it's not your fault?"

Derek nods, appearing defeated.

"Well, it isn't. It's not your fault and it's not mine. We were both angry and confused and hating ourselves. We really don't need any more guilt right now, big guy," he says gently.

Derek nods again, but Stiles can tell he still blames himself. "Okay. I guess I'll go then. I've said what I've needed to say." His shoulders are hunkered down all the way into his spine, his head lowered.

Nope. That won't do. The guy looks like a depressed turtle.

"You can stay," he blurts out, cheeks reddening when Derek looks up with a stunned, perplexed expression. "I mean, if you want. Dad's at the station until tomorrow."

"No, I couldn't." Derek shakes his head, even though he looks like he wants to say yes. "You could go into heat and—" He stops, closing his eyes and scowling at himself.

 _Fuck_. His notes.

"Uh," Stiles says, uncomfortable. "I don't… think so, dude."

Derek opens his eyes, only to start glaring at him.

"Omegas in the presence of an alpha go into heat early."

Stiles freezes, and Derek immediately gets this funny look in his eyes that makes him gulp.

"But I was with Scott a week ago," he says, confused. "Scott's an alpha."

"Is he mated?" Derek asks. Stiles nods hesitantly. "An omega's body can sense when an alpha is mated. If they are, the omega's body doesn't consider that alpha a suitable sex partner, so therefore the heat is not induced."

Oh, god, how could he have forgot about that?

Stiles splutters on the word 'sex partner' and manages to choke, "But my body's gonna consider _you_ a sex partner?"

 _Don't act like you're surprised, dude. You dig him, too_ , his mind tells him unhelpfully.

Aaaaaaand… _fuck_ , yep, rightio to that.

Derek's jaw ticks as he starts to stand up.

"I should go."

"No!"

Stiles is aware he has demonstrated foot-in-mouth syndrome again, but he can't help it. Derek's going to leave and then never come back. Stiles is going to masturbate so many times that his dick is going to fall off and he's going to see Jesus.

Derek stops, hand twisted on the door knob. "Stiles," he says, and Stiles can hear that his teeth are clenched. "I. Need. To leave."

"But…" Stiles's cock twitches, and for the first time in his life it actually _hurts_. "You really, really, _really_ don't want to do that," he whimpers. Derek's back muscles flex, shoulders straightening, almost like he's caught a whiff of something. Stiles flinches when he puts two and two together. "I don't think I could survive if you did."

"You'll be fine," Derek grits out, knuckles bleeding white from how hard he's holding onto the door knob.

"No, I won't be," Stiles whispers, wants to scream. He's fucking terrified. "I can't do this alone. My body wants you. _I_ want you."

That _does_ gets Derek to turn around, irises flashing red. "Stop," he growls.

"No fucking way," Stiles splutters, feeing a rush of something strange and powerful. "You don't get to say that shit to me when you want me just as bad, Derek. You don't get to say that, _okay_?"

"This is your heat talking, Stiles. You don't know what I want, let alone what you want," Derek bites back, words like ice.

Stiles's eyes flash. He knows that, because he can _feel_ them. "Fuck you," he spits.

Derek's pupils dilate for a second. Stiles thinks he's going to disappear out the door and never look back, but then his jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring. "Say that again," he snarls.

Stiles's cock stirs again. There's something so animalistic about the way he's feeling right now, like his mind is numb and hazy, cognitive thought seeping away as a primal rush of _needneedneedneedneed_ thrums through every inch of his body. Derek's eyes suddenly dart down to his crotch, and Stiles watches the alpha inhale sharply. A moment of silence and hesitation between them both and Stiles is about to take a step forward, press and rub his body all up on that hard muscle, when the red in Derek's eyes dies away. He looks dazed.

"Maybe don't say that again," Derek breathes, voice low and guttural. He whips around, lightning fast, hand pulling at the door knob and ripping open the door.

Stiles watches in anguish as the man briskly walks down the hallway, hearing the thumps and creaks of the staircase, then the slam of the front door. He whines pitifully, eyes watering, pulling at his hair and gasping heavily as warmth strokes and caresses his insides.

"I'm going to die," he chokes, just before the first wave of his heat hits.

***

The first hour is absolute torture. Stiles spends it desperate; desperate to come, until he does… then needs to again, and again, and _again_.

By the second hour, his cock is so raw he's practically sobbing. He hasn't touched his ass yet, because a) he's always wanted somebody else to be the first to touch him there, and b) he doesn't have any amount of patience to concentrate on opening himself up without causing himself even more pain than he's feeling right now.

It's halfway through the fourth hour that Stiles realises he's not lucid enough to stand up and walk over to his desk to grab his heat supplies; food, water, lube, _the fucking basic necessities_. It's a panic-panic-panic moment and he finds himself wheezing for an entirely different reason than the burning sensation that's everywhere, and the light-headedness won't leave him alone as he fights off a full-blown panic attack.

"I can't fucking do this, I can't fucking do this," he mutters, sweating and out of breath. His eyes slide over to his bedside table, where his phone is laying. _Fuck_ , he hopes it's charged.

It takes five minutes to unlock, then another five to find the number he's looking for. He hits _CALL_ and puts the phone to his ear, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood, closing his eyes.

"Hello, Beacon Hills station. Deputy Parrish. How may I help you?"

"Jordan, _oh thank god_. I need to talk to my dad. It's urgent."

"Stiles? Are you okay? You sound—"

"Jordan, no, I—I can't, not now. Just get my dad, _please_ …"

Stiles hears silence over the line except for Jordan's breathing, then it's another few seconds before there's a beep signalling the line's been changed. Stiles doesn't give the other person time to speak before letting out a sob.

"D-Dad, I—I'm in heat. I can't—I can't get to my supplies."

He hears his dad curse.

"You're early."

"Tell me about it," he chokes out wryly, but the dial tone is the only answer to Stiles's reply.

He spends the next twenty minutes grinding the palm of his hand over the leaking, swelled head of his cock. It takes another ten more minutes to come and only a single minute after that to feel like he needs to all over again. His dad should be here soon. He _has_ to be.

A knock on his bedroom door fifteen minutes later makes him let out a soft cry of relief.

"Oh, god, thank _fuck_ ," he moans, licking his dry lips. "Dad, I—I need you to—" Stiles stops talking when the person walks into the room, his cock pulsing and causing him to hiss in a sharp breath.

Derek's wearing clothes that Stiles might not have paid any attention to when he'd been here before, but in this state, he can't seem to _not_ notice; tight-fitting black sweater with fucking thumb holes, plus washed-out black jeans… the skinny kind.

Stiles is going to die.

"W-What—" he manages, but before he can say anything more Derek is stripping off his clothes.

 _Definitely_ going to die.

"Your dad called me."

And, well, that was _so_ not what he'd expected to hear next.

Stiles's eyebrows pinch together and he manages to let out a surprised laugh. At this point, he's not sure if it's at himself for being naked and in heat in front of an alpha that deliberately left when given the chance to fuck him, or whether it's because said alpha is back _to_ fuck him after a phone call with his dad.

Derek obviously sees his look of stupor, giving him a half-assed shrug and a small smile. "Your dad is very persuading," he jokes. At least, Stiles wants to hope it's a joke, because if it isn't then he is going to feel very propositioned… and not in the good way. He must voice that opinion because Derek shakes his head.

"You think I'd be here if I _didn't_ want to fuck you?"

Stiles squints at him. "I'm not so sure right now, actually."

Derek's smile drops, along with his boxers.

Stiles's mouth goes dry.

"That comment about your dad was a joke. Me wanting to fuck you is completely serious."

"Are you sure?" Stiles croaks, hand around his dick squeezing almost as tight as his ass clenching in greedy anticipation. Derek's eyes drift down his body and linger there, and there's a quick moment where Stiles feels a tiny bit self-conscious, but that feeling automatically sinks beneath the demanding need to be split open on Derek's knot.

"Well _fuck_ if you're serious then get that lube from my desk because I haven't even been able to sit up and so I'm worried that if I try to stand I'm going to brain myself on the nearest sharp surface and that would be horrible because then I would literally die during heat and that's such a cliché when you think about it really because—"

"Stiles," Derek cuts him off, his voice pinched like Stiles's panic is stressing him out; which yeah, okay, it probably is. "It's all right. I've got you."

Stiles's breath whooshes out of him in one huge exhale at those words. _I've got you_. Honestly, if he weren't lying here with an uncomfortable and painful hard-on? He'd be on one knee with a ring right now.

"Is there anything I need to know?" Derek asks. Stiles watches him walk over with his hands full; a bottle of lube, the packets of Cheetos Stiles stocked up on, and at least three of the five bottles of mineral water Stiles also bought for the occasion. He places them on Stiles's bedside table, within reach if needed. "Preferences?"

Stiles gives Derek the most absurd expression he can afford to right now. "To not feel like my dick's going to drop off?" he manages sarcastically. " _Preferably_. The solution to that inconvenience is your dick up my ass."

Derek nods dutifully, not replying, but his actions explain enough. Stiles squeezes over as much as he can in his current state to let Derek share the single bed, throwing a hand over his face as the other one strains on his cock. His eyes are closed, mouth parted on the small gasps he's unable to hold back. If Derek would touch him now, everything would be— _whoa_ , yesssssss.

"That inconvenience still an issue?" Derek says, lube-slicked fingers teasing at his rim.

"Nnnnn—no?" Stiles croaks, out of breath and feeling like he's dying. In a _good_ way. Oh, such a very good way. That good way turns into a holy-shit-fucking-perfect way when the finger Derek's been rubbing against him dips forward, breaching the ring of muscle.

 _Home sweet home_ , Stiles thinks dazedly, head swimming and toes curling when the finger strokes against his inner walls, opening up a path for another finger to slip in.

"This enough?" Derek murmurs. Stiles gasps when one of those fingers lightly glides over his prostate before retreating just as swiftly. "Or do you want more?"

"What do you think, asshole," he manages to hiss, moaning when Derek gives in to his sass, third finger sliding in with a loud, wet noise that causes his cock to twitch; it continues to twitch as Derek uses all three fingers to press into him deeper and deeper, until he can feel the heavy and hot-like-burning sensation of another orgasm building.

"Oh—oh, _oh fuck_ ," he swears, gripping the sheets tightly in both fists. Derek's fingers stroke him through it, rubbing in mind-numbing circles. Stiles curses obscenely, turning his head into his pillow and biting down hard as his body quakes, cock jerking in his hand as wet warmth hits his abdomen.

For some reason, the pressing need to come again is… gone. Stiles can still feel Derek's fingers in his ass, and now that his orgasm's slowly receding they feel _big_. Like, really big. He's going to need to appreciate those hands a whole lot more now.

"Has anyone ever told you that your fingers are, like, seriously huge?" he blurts out… before realising what he's said, closing his eyes and biting his lip. _Why do you do this to yourself, Stiles. Why_.

Derek huffs a laugh and Stiles feels a tingle all the way down to where the fingers inside him twitch as they pull out gently. "Not until now, no."

"Well, uh, they are." Stiles squirms, worried he's ruined the moment. Derek doesn't seem to mind however, the alpha nudging him to roll over onto his stomach.

"I have something that's even bigger," he teases, and oh—yeah, _wow_. Stiles really needs to appreciate Derek's _everything_ more.

Stiles would have responded with a playful quip, on normal circumstances, but before he can so much as roll his eyes Derek has climbed on top of him, thighs bracketing his hips (holy shit, _yes_ , he can feel those muscles) and cock pushing into him, slow and thick and something Stiles never knew how much he wanted but _fuuuuuuck_.

"You all right?" Derek grunts once he's flush against Stiles's ass, full and deep and hard—oh, god, _so fucking hard_. Stiles almost laughs hysterically.

"D-Do I s-s-sound a-all r-right?" he stammers, moaning when Derek shifts, just an inch, brushing over the spot that has his entire body trembling beyond control.

Derek doesn't answer; not in words, anyway. Stiles doesn’t have time to brace himself, can only arch forward with a moan of surprised pleasure when the alpha begins to fuck him. It doesn't take him long to learn how to move, pushing back and clenching down at the same time, feeling the alpha grind into it and grunt in response, cock twitching inside him.

" _Fuck_ ," Derek groans, voice rough, strained. Stiles twists his head to see behind him. Derek's staring down where he's pressing in, eyes flicking between pale hazel and bright, intense red. The sight is almost enough to get Stiles to come again. He breathes hard through the next couple of thrusts, focusing on how Derek fills him up in all the right places, how the alpha already knows what spot causes him to buck and whimper.

"You close?" Derek asks, low, throaty; his breaths rattle around in his chest, and Stiles can feel each one like they're branded into his skin. He's struggling to keep up with the alpha's fast, jabbing thrusts and is barely able to move with the rhythm now. He has no idea how long they've been at this for, can only lie there and take it as Derek fucks him silly, too lost in the moment to respond. " _Stiles_ , are you going to come?" Derek asks again, hoarser, and Stiles can only imagine the fangs between his lips preventing normal human speech.

Stiles manages to inhale carefully, tries to reply in a confident voice, but his voice shakes on the exhale. "Y-Y-Yesssss…" he whines, chest heaving, body quivering. His cock is trapped between his abdomen and the sheets, rubbing against the bed with each of Derek's movements, the alpha's muscle and bulk covering him, shoving him down into the mattress. But it doesn't hurt, not at all, and he feel likes the perfect little omega for his big, strong alpha.

"Then _come_ ," Derek growls, pounding his hips in and up, hitting the spot that Stiles has now equated to literal heaven. Stiles doesn’t have any other option but to listen to his alpha, the heat sliding down his spine, settling in his hips, then rushing through his cock and balls. He finds himself clutching the sheets in both fists, gasping and flailing as he comes… and comes, and comes, and _comes_.

Stiles is barely coherent once he gets proper sensation back in his limbs, his muscles sore, ass loose but still _so fucking full_ as Derek continues to thrust away. Derek's movements have quickened considerably, hips lurching forward and rutting in one spot, chasing release… then, with a long, heavy moan his hips stop, stutter, and Stiles can _feel_ the knot swelling.

Derek's knot is fucking _massive_ , stretching him out, filling him more than he could ever possibly imagine. Stiles hides his head in the pillow to muffle his high-pitched shout, coming again, even though his last orgasm had seemed final. He knows his whole body's vibrating, suspended in an orgasm so powerful that he's unaware of anything but the sound of Derek's voice; jagged and torn apart on an animalistic snarl as his knot is milked, the alpha's cock throbbing once, twice, then spilling inside him, slick and hot and…

Stiles blacks out from the oversensitivity, going slack and boneless as Derek continues to pump him full of come.

***

Stiles's eyes open sluggishly, and he immediately winces at the ache spreading through his lower body; a dull, throbbing pain. He also identifies the weight of a second body in his bed, a warmth pressed to his side, comforting against the cool night air blowing in from his open window.

"Hey," a voice murmurs, soft but a little hoarse.

Stiles squints and recognises the person looking at him; the unshaven face, gentle eyes and expressive eyebrows. _Derek_. All of a sudden, what they'd done rushes back to him in startling clarity.

"We…" he chokes out, "…had sex."

"We did," Derek says, amused. "Glad you remember."

"But…" Stiles tries to find the words, coming up short.

Derek's smile thins into a worried frown. "You okay?"

Stiles nods, almost like he feels he needs to. "Yep. Peachy." He hesitates on the next sentence. "Are you?"

"Yes." Derek doesn't look any less worried. "Did you need me to call your dad?"

"No!" Stiles snaps, wincing at the sharpness of his tone.  "Sorry. No, I'm good. He's probably busy at the station anyway."

"…Okay," Derek says cautiously. "Well, I think you should call him later. He's… concerned."

Stiles's eyes narrow. " _Concerned_?"

Derek stares back at him, the expression on his face conveying his disbelief. "You went through your first heat with an alpha you've only met a few times. I'm sure concerned is how he's feeling, Stiles."

Stiles breathes out a harsh laugh. "Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. Hold up. You're saying this like you didn't offer your body to me in the first place."

Derek glares. "I'm not saying I didn't initiate anything, all right?" he says, harsh as Stiles's laugh had just been. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what _did_ you mean?" Stiles throws his hands up, one of them hitting the alpha in the nose, and Derek closes his eyes, growling. "Shit, fuck, I'm so sorry!" he gasps.

Derek opens his eyes, looking surprisingly less frustrated than he was a few seconds ago. "It's fine. Look, Stiles, call your dad." Before Stiles can argue, he exhales and continues abruptly. "I'm not insinuating anything other than that he's your father, you're his son, and he should know how you're doing."

Stiles doesn’t have a comeback for those words, as Derek has made a fair point. He sighs and relaxes back into the pillows. "I can do that, totally." After Derek doesn't respond, he shyly asks, "So… are you staying?"

Derek's smile slowly returns.

"What do you think."

***

It turns out that his father is, in fact, _very_ pleased in Stiles's choice of heat partner—and, later down the track, lifelong partner.

(Stiles sometimes teases him about whether that's just because he gets free meat at the market, but his dad and Derek always roll their eyes and call him a brat.)

And, oh, what a lucky brat he is.


End file.
